


Fuck you, as said in colourfull flowers

by Pearlislove



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, F/M, Florists, Language of Flowers, Trans!Missy, Warning: The Doctor Misgenders Missy, fuck you flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearlislove/pseuds/Pearlislove
Summary: “Fuck you.” The man said, dead serious.“What?” Clara blinked. He hadn’t screamed, but he’d swore and really Clara didn’t understand what had happened. Had she done something wrong?“Is there any way you can say fuck you in flower language? Because if there is then a want a bouquet that says fuck you in flower language. Please.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an old Tumblr promt: 
> 
> Person A owns a flowershop and person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says 'How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you om flower?'
> 
> Tweaked it a little but the original idea is still left in the story.
> 
> WARNING: Because it has been brought to my attention that it might be very offending to some - something I do not itend for anything in this story to be -I am hereby warning that Missy is trans and The Doctor Misgender her at one point!
> 
> If you'll feel insulted or angered by this feel free not to read the story, as I do not want my readers to read something that might upset them.

**Flower language for fuck you**

 

Sighing, Clara slouched over the desk and asked herself for the hundredth time why she had agreed to this. Taking care of her aunts flower shop for a week had seemed like it could be quite fun when it was suggested, but three days into the seven days she was baby sitting the shop and she had realised she had been very wrong in her assumptions.

 

At this point, the only plus in her book was the amount of money her aunt offered to pay her for the job.

 

She had thought there’d be people coming in and out in an almost constant flow, and that she’d have a lot to do. She hadn’t thought her sale record in three days would be three pink roses sold to a ‘definitely not in love’ highschooler spilling home-written poems from his backpack.

 

As she was considering how much damage it’d do to business if she closed the shop early to go home and take a nap, the door suddenly slammed open.

 

Startled, Clara immediately sat up straight, looking up only to be stared down by a grey haired man with the most expressive eyebrows Clara had ever seen. He was dressed in sweatpants, t-shirt and hoodie and though she suspected he most likely suffered from resting bitch face, she still got the feeling he was absolutely _furious_.

 

“Hi, uh, welcome to Oswald's Flowers. Can I help you with anything?” She tried to hide her insecurity with a polite smile and professional tone, but he looked like he was about to yell at her and it was really quite hard.

 

“Fuck you.” The man said, dead serious.

 

“What?” Clara blinked. He hadn’t screamed, but he’d swore and really Clara didn’t understand what had happened. Had she done something wrong?

 

“Is there any way you can say fuck you in flower language? Because if there is then a want a bouquet that says fuck you in flower language. Please.”

 

The pleasantry at the end surprised Clara more than anything,  and she racked her brain, trying to remember if the was any way to portray the requested message. “Uh, not exactly. You could have Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations for you have disappointed me, and orange lilies for hatred. I guess?”

 

The man nodded, his eyebrows softening a little as he considered it. “I suppose it’ll do. Do you think I could have a large bouquet of that?” He gave her a smile, which completely disarmed her as it appeared on his aged face, and she nodded quickly.

 

“Of course. It’ll just take a moment.” She answered, moving around behind the desk and trying to find the requested flowers.

 

“I’ll wait.” He answered, giving her another smile, and this time Clara was pretty sure she was going to faint because oh god he _smiled_

 

Excusing herself, Clara allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts and calm down as she headed into the back to get the Orange Lilies - I hate you in flower language, and apparently very important for the message her current customer was trying to communicate. When she came out again, she felt a fraction calmer, and smiled.

 

The man smiled too, an eyebrow raised at her arms full of orange lilies, and she just gave him a subtle nod, as if to say ‘yes, this is how much you hate this person’.

 

“So, who is this for?” After a few moments of comfortable silence, Clara spoke, almost finished with the bouquet and feeling far too curious for her own good. “Some bothersome ex?”

 

The mysterious man shook his head, though not exactly in a disagreeing manner. “Something like that, I suppose.” He said, his voice dark and raspy and very, very Scottish. “Could you add a card to it by the way? With a message?”

 

“Yeah sure. What do you want me to write?” Clara picked up one of the small cards and opened it, almost giddy as she waited to hear what lewd message he’d want written on it.

 

“To Matthew Delgado, Love The Doctor.” He smiled smugly. “That bastard doesn’t deserve her chosen name on the card.”

 

Clara nodded, writing it down even though she was surprised at the quite mellow message.”What did they even do, if I can ask? Normally you kind of stop giving your ex partners flowers after your break up?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes as she fixed the last details on the bouquet, attaching the card to the wrapper.

 

The Doctor shrugged. “She’s a psychotic ass, she had it coming for her. Childhood friends or not I swear she’s half an insult away from a restraining order!” He scowled at the end, angry and upset as he thought of his rude friend/ex-girlfriend.

 

Clara just watched him, nodding and handing over the bouquet. “Does sound like she deserves it. Here you go, thirty dollars please.”

 

“My pleasure.” He answered, taking out the necessary money from his pocket and handing it to Clara, before turning and leaving the store.

 

Silently, Clara watched him go. She had wished for customers, and some invisible force had answered. She’d gotten to put together a thirty dollar boquet of ‘fuck you’ instead of napping and closing early and she was absolutely convinced she had never made a better decision.

 

\---

 

Another three days pass after the ‘fuck you’ bouquet, and Clara finds herself bored once more. The only ones that's been in there in between was a pair of newlyweds picking up a preordered bouquet  of multi-coloured lilies for their anniversary, and a shy teenage girl who wanted red roses for a teenage boy that wrote her poetry. Clara strongly suspected the boy had been the same that had bought pink roses from her earlier that week, but said nothing. Just gave her the requested flowers and wondered when she became the enable for some sappy teenage romance that’d probably end in heartache.

 

Just like three days earlier, she is seriously considering closing down early and taking a nap, when, once more, the door slams open.

 

This time, though, she is not as startled, and Clara is almost about to ask if his ex liked her ‘fuck you’ boquet when she looks up and sees that it's not the same person standing there.

 

Instead of a grumpy man in a ratty t-shirt, it's an eloquent woman dressed to her teeth. She got a slim, sharp angled face painted heavily in bright colours, a plum coloured suit and long brown hair expertly twisted into a perfect bun.

 

Trying not to stare, Clara smiled her most professional smile. “Welcome to Oswald's Flowers, how can I help you?” She asked politely, the woman suddenly turning to stare at her as if she hadn’t noticed her until just then.

 

“Well I was wondering, if I got a picture of a bouquet, do you think you could replicate it? It's a gift.” She spoke in a mild Scottish accent and smiled sweetly, fishing a brand new smartphone out of her pocket and started tapping on the screen with long red nails.

 

Clara smiled. This seemed fun, and considering how slow business was, she could do with fun. “I could try. Depends on the picture and if I got the flowers. Can I see?” She stretch out her hand expectantly, waiting for the other woman to give her the phone.

 

“Fine. Here” Without further ado, the pristine woman handed her her phone, an Iphone of the latest version, with a photo from the camera roll already pulled up on the screen. “My partner gave it to me, but he won't tell where he got it and I’d like to send him one back.”

 

“Of course.” Clara agreed, looking down at the photo and suddenly freezing in fear. On the photo, was the ‘fuck you’ bouquet. It was the exact same flower combination she had put together not three days earlier, and she recognised her own hand writing on the card. ‘To Matthew Delgado. Love The Doctor’

 

Increasing horror setting inside her, she slowly looked up, looking at the woman and realising that she _was_ Matthew Delgado, the _psychotic ass_ that had been half an insult away from a restraining order by her ex boyfriend.

 

“Fuck you. “ The woman said, when Clara looked up, giving her a smile that was decidedly less friendly.

 

“What?” Clara starred at her, a deja vu feeling creeping into the back of her head as she remembered how she had the exact same conversation a few days earlier.

 

“The bouquet is flower language for fuck you. We don't really get along very well, me and my partner. Used to, when we were small, but not so much anymore.” The woman was polit and matter of fact, and Clara tried to hide her expression of dread, not wanting to give herself away.

 

What was the chances of having two orders for ‘fuck you’ boquets in one week? By the very same people, too.

 

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Clara finally spoke. “ _Either way_ , I am quite certain the photo will be enough of a reference that I can make one of those boquets for you. It’ll be thirty dollars, card included, though.”

 

The woman nodded, opening her pursue and taking out her wallet, placing thirty dollars on the counter. “Not a problem. I’d like the car to read ‘To Theodore Who, Love Missy’. And please underline my name will you?” The last part was said with some irritation, as though underlining the name of the one who sent the boquete was standard, but all too many people forgot to do it.

 

“Yes absolutely. It’ll just take a moment.” Quickly, unwilling to waste time when dealing with this particular client, Clara set about arranging all the requested flowers into her second ‘fuck you’ flower arrangement of the week, secretly happy and relieved that ‘Theodore Who’ or ‘The Doctor’ or whatever he was named hadn't told his possibly ex partner that she made the first arrangement.

 

As she finished up the last few details, she found herself unable to remeber where a few of the flowers should go, and seeing as the phone screen had turned off long ago she quickly pressed the turn on button to open it again. She had planned on quickly turning it on and asking ‘Missy’ to unlock it, but as she saw the locked screen photo all thoughts came to a stop.

 

In the photo, was the woman standing in front of Clara, snogging the living daylight out of her partner/ex partner/ friend ‘The Doctor’ against a wall. The lighting in the photo was bad, and the picture slightly blurry, telling Clara it was probably taken by someone at least half-wasted at a party. Still, despite the quality, it was undeniable what the two persons in the picture was doing.

 

Desperate to escape the picture and all its implications, Clara quickly swiped across the screen, and was relieved to discover it didn’t have a lock and she was thus immediately shown the picture of the flower bouquet instead.

 

“How is it going? Are you finished soon?” The woman sounded impatient, quickly tapping a four-beat rhythm on the counter with her perfectly manicured nails, eyes inspecting the nails on her other hand absentmindedly.

 

“Yeah sorry. Just a mo’.” Quickly, Clara put in the last flowers, wrapping it up and adding the card with the greeting, before handing it over to her eager client, who all but tore it from her hands. “Though if he's your partner, I really don't understand why you need to be so rude to someone.”

 

At the last command, the woman’s eyes lit up, a manic grin spreading across her face as she laughed. “Oh, but _sweetheart_ , you got to go all out when you fight! It makes the make-up sex so much better afterwards!” She winked as she turned around, bouquet in hand, and walked out of the store, neither ashamed nor subtile.

 

Clara just stood there, gaping and staring at the door long after the woman left. Finally, she gathered herself, and, moving around the shop to try and clean up  the space, decided that she preferred lovesick teenagers buying roses for each other. Much better than horny frenemies in their fifties. She shuddered and smiled, all in one.


End file.
